


Oliver Queen, still a bit of a dick.

by margrave



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Epistolary, Gen, Journalism, News Media, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 13:03:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margrave/pseuds/margrave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A. R. Sun, top journalist for the 'Starling Star' gets an interview with Oliver Queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oliver Queen, still a bit of a dick.

**Author's Note:**

> I love outsider!POV, and I love epistolary/journalism fics, so, here is one. 
> 
> What the hell does the medie of Starling City think of Oliver Queen and his return. 
> 
> Not beta'd, all mistakes mine.

**Oliver Queen, still a bit of a dick.**

By A. R. Sun 

I, like most of Starling City, watched with a level of stunned amazement when the news broke that Oliver Queen was alive. For those who don’t know (you, obviously, have been sleeping under a rock), Oliver "Ollie" Queen is the son of the late (now confirmed) billionaire Robert Queen and Moira Queen, was born on May 16, 1985, arguably with a silver spoon in his mouth. 

From the first moment when the tabloid photos of baby Oliver got leaked, we, the media of Starling City, watched the little king-to-be with great interest. He was adorable at first, and the older he got the more we became interested.

Throughout his life, Queen has dropped out of four schools (some would argue he was kicked out of at least three), and made no compunctions about living the life of the rich and privileged. In the early 2000s we watched Ollie and his golden mop of hair fall in and out of one club after another. There were the sex tape scandals (tape number one was pretty bad, but number four was a nice piece of work that everyone involved in should be rather proud of, at the very least the socialites involved in it got a nice pay check and several reality TV shows out of it). There were the public acts of drunkenness and indecency (who could forget the Great Easter Bender, my first big real break, and the first time I covered him or his family in any significant way. Hell, I still have the 8ft tall stuffed rabbit in my spare bedroom, a present from Oliver because apparently my coverage for it was hilarious), and the loud and over the top parties (elephants and alcohol do not mix, people).

Oliver Queen was great for the tabloid business; he was rich, pretty and loved to do stupid things in public. Yes, he was a bit of man whore, a definite douche bag who liked to indulge, a selfish privilege white boy, but by all accounts he was also charming and nice, and dumb, let’s not forget that. So, it was just as well he was pretty and rich.

* * *

In 2007, Oliver was on the Queen's Gambit, his family's yacht, with his father Robert Queen, and Sara Lance, the sister of his rumoured then girlfriend Laurel Lance (I have been advised by my editor that I don’t go and make claims I can’t substantiate, so, I’m going to let this one pass). The yacht didn’t make it back to port, and after nearly three months of searching it was declared that the Queen’s Gambit had sunk, taking all of it is occupants with it. No bodies were found, and the remaining Queen family had a closed funeral on their family land.

It was a weird time for the media, Robert Queen was well liked, and his company, Queen Industries brought in a lot business to Starling City. Oliver, while a tabloid favourite, has never done anything (too) illegal. And at the end of the day it was a tragedy for several families. Looking back, I’m mostly glad I was overseas getting my idealism trashed; I suspect I would have written a fairly bad article that I would have regretted.

News still happened, celebrities still made it into the tabloid, but in the ensuing five years, Starling City just didn’t get the same national attention in regards to the rich and powerful. Sure, celebrities tried, there was even a few months back in 2007 and 2008 where we thought Tommy Merlyn (best friend of Oliver) was going to drink (and other substances) himself into an early grave. Thank god for Moira Queen I say, as far as we can put together, the woman single handily managed to pull Tommy back from the brink after daddy-Merlyn’s numerous interventions failed. To have been a fly on that wall.

In short, we missed the public showing of the rich and spoiled. We missed Oliver Queen and his antics, and we sat back and waited for something better (bets were placed for little Thea Queen to start on some truly amazing shenanigans).

Fast track five years, it was mid-May last year, I was at my desk attempting to string together a sentence after a week working on a corruption story, when my landline, my cell, and my email all beeped at me one after the other. Phones were ringing off the hook, the news was in; Oliver Queen has returned to Starling City.

* * *

Oliver’s return has been an interesting case of cloak and dagger. The man was presumed dead for five years, he was apparently stuck on an island for all of it, and the Queen family and he seems to be playing it as if he was never away. There is no concrete evidence except for ‘sources’ that say Queen has scars and burns over his body. If it is true you have to wonder what happened on that island, and if it is lie you have to think five years of isolation must have done something to the once playboy who had everything. 

Queen Industries made a public announcement on his return, and it was pretty much radio silence till his arraignment to be legally brought back alive, and then nothing again till his very public arrest, accused of being the Hood. (If only it was true, it would have been one of the most amazing stories, ever).

Since then it has been radio silence from the once notorious Ollie. Sure, there were the odd announcements here and there; Queen Stumbles at Queen Industries event, Queen opens club, Queen involved with questionable women. But generally speaking, it was rather tame.

Imagine my surprise when I got a call last Friday from Queen Industries asking whether I want the first crack at interviewing Oliver Queen. My response? Hell. Yeah.

* * *

It is a lovely Tuesday morning, and I’m sitting in an uncomfortable chair with lights built into it, in the empty club Verdant. The club is set to open for business in just over two weeks time. It is arguably Oliver Queen’s first endeavour into adulthood, and it could potentially turn into a lucrative franchise.

Verdant is located in the Glades, yes, the Glades where crime and gang warfare is the norm. The place also happens to be an old and abandoned Queen Industries factory, and it is the venue that Oliver himself has chosen for this little welcome back interview. Make what you will of it.

I have got a list of questions in my head that I want to ask, and Oliver Queen is already fifteen minutes late.

Ten minutes later, I hear sound from the front of the club, and in walks Oliver Queen himself. We meet and greet, and then settle down into our mutually uncomfortable chairs. It is the first time in over six years that I have been this close to Oliver Queen. He is wearing a thick brown leather jacket, buttoned up to the neck, and jeans, a pretty big departure from the suits he uses to wear. After the clothes the first thing you will notice is the close cropped hair cut. Oliver Queen’s boy-band hair-do was no more, I’m a bit sad about it, the amount of materials I got from his haircuts were good times. The next thing you will notice is his physical presence, I had done quite a few interviews with Oliver in my early days on the job, and this presence is definitely new. So are the shadows under his eyes.

He apologises, “Sorry about the delay. There was a mix up with supplies.” Coffee is ordered, he sits back in his chair and smiles. It is a very nice smile; it is also about 99% fake. I start with some softballs, how are you? “Good.” How are the family, “Great.”

So far so good, and I move on to ask about his return to civilisation, “It is a bit of a shock, you know. Everything is louder and brighter. Food tastes strange. There was a bit of an adjustment period at the beginning, but it is good now. My mother and Thea, and everyone have been great. They help.” It is interesting that his inflection didn’t change throughout that.

I ask him about the lack of his media presence, “I’m better but I’m not 100% yet. Will be. The first party I threw was good, it was fun, but it was too much. I was trying way too hard. I want the parties, definitely, but I think I want it a bit different. More classy maybe, the club is a way for me to see what I like now. I don’t even recognise most of the good DJs nowadays,” he shrugs, and it is his first major physical movement since we sat down.

It is as good time as any to raise the giant elephant in the room, what it was like being stuck on an island for five years? Stony silence, and then a quirk of a brow, “Lonely.” What about the supposed burns and scars on his body? “No comment.” Any bad dreams or nightmares? “No. Sleep like the dead.” We go round and round in circles about the island, and Oliver Queen locks down on it like FortKnox.

After five minutes of not getting anywhere with him about the island, I try another tactic, I ask him why he declined taking over Queen Industries, and his stare become distant, he takes a minute before answering, “When I came back I wanted to take over immediately. Do dad proud. But I don’t know, after that initial urge I just couldn’t do it. I’m not my dad. He was a great man, he had his faults, but he did great things. I’m not him. I was never him, and I don’t think I want to be him,” he stops. Another dead end.

I look around the club, at the lights on the furniture, look back him, and ask him what he does when he is not trying out parties or starting up a club. He looks around and returns his stare back to me, “I read, catch up with the internet. Figure out why cats seem to be in. Facebook confuses me, and I’m told I need to avoid ‘Twilight’ and I’m debating about marathoning ‘Lost’.” I concur with the former sentiment, unless suitably drunk, and I would avoid the latter, yes, I’m still bitter about the ending. “Mostly, I’m trying to soak up the atmosphere. Seeing how different the night life is.” Then should we be expecting more tabloid photos, “Maybe,” he says.

We delve into some more pleasantries; the choice for the clubs’ décor; he wanted something different, hence the lights in the furniture, his new hair; after five years of not being able to cut it properly he wanted less. Time is going by fast, and I want to get at least something more from this interview.

I ask him why me, because let’s be honest here, there are about a million more exclusive, more popular magazines out there who would have paid an arm and leg to get the first interview with him. He looks at me and grins, I think perhaps the first real smile I have seen from him, “You called me an over privileged dick with a sexual fetish for furries. And that the only reason I wasn’t in rehab yet was because I had more money than God and a nice smile.” I apologise, and decided to clarify that I didn’t just call him a dick, I called him the King Dick of All Dicks, and that sending an 8ft stuffed bunny to my place after the article was published kind of proved my point. He laughs. And before I could ask more questions his bodyguard comes out of nowhere and whisks him away. Apparently there is important business to be done.

It was a short interview, and there really wasn’t any big revelation, whatever happened on that island is obviously not coming out anytime soon. But hey, so far, I’m the only person to have been given the opportunity to chat with Oliver Queen since his return, and that, I suppose that counts for something.

* * *

Two days later as I’m sitting at my desk, trying to make Oliver Queen’s interview something more, something a bit more worthy, something Greek, I get a delivery. It was so very pink, and roughly 8ft tall, its beady eyes stared at me from behind its floppy ears. It would be extremely complementary to the yellow one I have at home. I see my colleagues taking photos of it on their smart phones, and I hope Queen get some sort of enjoyment from this, because when I see him next I’m going full steam ahead. 

Carting it back to my apartment via the train was not something I want to repeat again.

So, Oliver Queen, prodigal son of Starling City, obviously changed by his experience at the island, a bit more mature, and a bit quieter.

But you know, still a bit of a dick. **[END]**

[A. R. Sun has been writing for the _Starling Star_ since 2005, and will one day win that damn Pulitzer from Lane and Kent. Just you wait.]


End file.
